And I Am Not A Fartsniffer!
by dress without sleeves
Summary: Sam has a cut, and he wants Dean to make it better. Wee!Winchesters. Not Wincest, just 10 pounds of cute in a five pound bag. Whatever that means.


**Author's Notes:** I make no apologies for this fic. Merry Christmas. :D

And I Am not a Fartsniffer!

_For Jensen and Jared._

_Awww._

Sammy moaned, "_Deeeeean_," about half a second before the waterworks started; alarm bells exploded in Dean's brain and he practically fell out of his chair as he raced towards his little brother, scrambling across the kitchen tile and sliding halfway on his knees so that he'd be on eye level.

"What is it? What's wrong? What happened? Are you okay?" The words all came out in one breath as Dean's eyes snapped across Sam's body, looking for gushing blood or missing limbs or some other horrifying wound. The apartment's door was still opened and Dean kicked it shut; he didn't know what kind of surgery he'd have to be doing here and he didn't want the freaky neighbors getting their jollies from it.

Sammy's face, red and blotchy from his tears, wrinkled into a pinched little knot as he slowly raised his hand.

Dean gaped, his whole mind going blank for like a full five seconds before his heart kick-started the thought process and he sunk back on his heels. His eyes fell shut for a few brief moments of completely overwhelming _relief_ chased immediately by disgruntled annoyance. "Aww _hell,_ Sammy, you fartsniffer." He grabbed his brother's hand and inspected the pointer finger, which Sam held trimly above the rest. "Don't scare me like that. It's just a stupid _paper cut._"

Sammy's eyes widened with more tears. "It _hurts_," he wailed, sniffing five times in quick succession. He paused for a second to add thoughtfully, "And I am not a fartsniffer."

Dean, twelve-years-old and kinda getting sick of the whole temper-tantrum phase that Sammy was going through, climbed tiredly to his feet. "Yes you are, and that's what you get for trying to steal my comic books again," he scolded lightly, shooting his brother a pointed look. "Come on, I'll get you a band-aid."

His little brother, who was kind of a dweeb but mostly okay, pouted as he followed Dean into the bathroom, sniffling the whole time. "_You_ steal comic books from people," he argued sullenly.

"That's different, fathead," Dean replied instantly.

Sammy frowned. "How come? And I am not a fathead."

Dean considered just ignoring the question, but Sammy had recently discovered that if he twisted his features just right he could get this little-lost-orphan-please-help-me-and-love-me thing going on across his face, which could come in handy when Dean was—well—trying to steal comic books. Or food. Or whatever other supplies that they'd run out of while Dad was on a hunt, because come on. A job? No freaking _way._

At any rate, Sammy was pulling the face and Dean caved. "'Cause I'm older," he answered. "And I always give 'em to you when I'm done, anyways." He shuffled around in the cupboard until he found the little box of band-aids, tucked behind an extra gallon of holy water that didn't fit in the fridge and a few salt rounds.

He held out a hand and Sammy gingerly placed the wounded finger on it. Dean very gently brushed a little of the blood off with his thumb and then wrapped the band-aid tightly around the finger. "There you go," he declared. "All better, dickweasel."

He stood and waited for Sammy to move, but the kid stood still, just staring up at him. He rolled his eyes. "_What_?"

Sammy held the hand up again petulantly. "It still hurts and I am not a dickweasel."

Dean raised his eyebrows 'cause _geez_ sometimes Sammy was just such a pain in the _ass_. "Well what do you want me to do about it?" He asked. "With a wound like that, you're lucky I didn't have to operate." Sammy's eyes went wide and Dean instantly regretted teasing, because it's not like he wanted to really _scare_ him or anything and he _hated_ it when Sammy cried. It was like the worst sound _ever_. "I was just kidding, Sammy, don't worry." His kid brother started to cry and Dean dropped guiltily back to his knees so he could keep looking Sammy right in the eyes. "Hey, come on. I was kidding. I'm sorry."

"It still _hurts_," Sammy wailed. He flung himself into Dean's arms and wrapped his legs around Dean's waist and refused to be put down, just the way he had when he was a baby.

Dean carefully lifted Sammy off the floor. "It hurts that bad?" He asked, panicking a little bit because he's not like a doctor or anything but he's pretty sure paper cuts are supposed to sting like the devil but not cause abrupt explosions of inconsolable tears.

Sammy quieted a little and paused for a second before he answered, in very tiny and very timid voice, "Well . . . maybe it would feel better if . . ."

Dean gently extricated himself from his brother's hold and set him on the kitchen counter so that he could really look at him. "If what?"

Sammy looked like he was holding his breath—his cheeks were all puffy and his face red and Dean thought he was going to like, pass out or something before the words exploding in a quick, embarrassed exhale. "Maybeitwouldfeelbetterifyoukissedit."

Dean stared. "If I _what_?" He asked, jaw to the floor. It was the stupidest thing his little brother had ever said. Kiss it? _What_? "You want me to _kiss it_?"

Sammy's face was beat red as he mumbled towards the ground, "Robbie Barns says that the reason we need mothers is because they kiss hurts away and that was why I was a freak was cause I didn't have a mother but I told him that I didn't need one cause I have a Dean and he said what's a Dean and I said he's my big brother and Robbie Barns said that it wasn't the same and then I said yes it _was_ and then he said no it wasn't and that a Dean can't kiss hurts away and I said wanna bet and he said yes and I said fine and then he said I was a stupid ugly buttface and I said no I'm not Dean will beat you up and then I kicked him in the shins and then—"

Dean clapped his hand over Sammy's mouth, grinning. "Easy, sport, don't hurt yourself." His head was kind of spinning. Sammy talked really fast and didn't like to end his sentences with, like, any sort of punctuation except exclamation points.

Sammy held up the finger.

Dean was still a little uneasy about the whole 'mother' idea, and wasn't exactly looking forward to putting his mouth anywhere _near_ Sammy's little kid hands with dirt and jelly all over them but . . . the stupid kid was making the Orphan Face again and anyway, what harm could it do?

Plus, Sammy kicked a kid and that deserved some sort of award.

So he sighed and pressed a kiss to the band-aid. "There you go, mucusbrain."

Sammy beamed one of his thousand-watt, wipe-out-the-neighborhood smiles and gave Dean a quick hug before sliding off the counter. "It doesn't hurt anymore," he said, with a weird sort of awe in his tone that kind of made Dean smile. A little. He puttered back towards his bedroom and Dean shook his head, going back to the T.V. when Sammy stopped suddenly and said, "Dean, you're the best big brother _ever_."

He waved the kid away, because, you know. Whatever. That was just his job, was look after Sammy, and damn _right_ he was good at what he did.

There were a couple minutes of quiet and then, from behind the door—"And I am not a mucusbrain!"


End file.
